The family has always been the focus for support, strength and a foundation for building the pillars of a child’s future. It’s a time when a child flourishes in the warmth and security of the mother and father figure. It is memories from this time in one’s life that never completely vanish. The house becomes the physical foundation of where these memories take place; the walls become a sponge, absorbing the memories that may have mostly slipped away in the ocean of our lives. The home is that omnipresent being always watching, looking on observing the moments in our lives that are both joyful and sorrowful. It remembers times that perhaps we would rather not remember and sometimes fails to remind us of times we would. The emotions come flooding back, and that moment from long ago stares you in face in its all unapologetic honesty. We fruitlessly attempt to make up for lost time; to try and ease the pain of the things that we wished we’d done differently. We laugh once more at the times we loved; a smile adorns our tear soaked cheek as the distant echoes of laughter ring in our ears for what seems just one last time. Endlessly clutching at the moments that mean most to us, trying to fight the slow erosion as time gradually trickles away. We strive to preserve our memories; of times that made us into who were are now; to find a way of freezing them into our minds and to protect them against the distractions of everyday’s constant rhythm. Suspension is about my memory. As time continues to play fragments of detail slowly begin to dissipate. The memory becomes distorted and the memory eventually becomes as fragile as a shard of ice. The memory is my father. A man with stature, immense pride, and old traditions. A family man. But as I look deeper I realise he was a fragile man; an insecure man. Someone who was quiet and came from a distant troubled past. I knew him for what he liked and loved, but it always seemed he loved from a distance. The opportunities to understand who he really was, not just as a father but as a friend, have been stolen away. The time has gone. And now I am left with the some small traces of who this person once was. These traces hold the key to the memories that have slipped away. Memories of who I think this person was; of what he gave me and of times we shared, what now seems so little. They are all I have. Now I must try to hold them in suspension; protect them from washing away completely.